Boob Scotch Blues.

I have learned a hard, journalistic lesson this week: Don't cheekily quote boozy conversations in print, especially when someone's chest size is in question.

This may seem obvious, but I am apparently a dumbass. After hearing about the Bob Log III legend from a friend, in which I learned about the "Boob Scotch" tradition, I wrote this blurb:

The other day, a female friend asked me to consider attending the upcoming Bob Log III show, in order to take part in a time-honored ritual surrounding the one-man-band's beloved song "Boob Scotch." Naturally intrigued, I explored the matter further and discovered that the song is only one of the several in which Mr. Log requires a girl from the audience to sit on his lap, and in this particular instance, graciously allow her boob to mix with Mr. Log's scotch. It is the bane of said friend's existence that she does not have a rack sizable enough to participate in this hallowed event, so someone else is going to have to take this one for the team. You've got to hand it to a guy who can not only pull this off, but also win fans for it. Ladies? Anyone? Gentlemen, I know you won't miss this. MB

In the harsh light of retrospection, I can see how this would be interpreted as some type of jab. BUT IT WAS NOT INTENDED THAT WAY. This friend is a petite woman, and as such seemed to doubt the logistics of boob-scotching her own self. I embellished this fact in an ill-fated attempt to illustrate this lady's bad-assedness and unabashedness when it comes to things like boob-scotching, which I greatly admire about her.

This one's for you.

It would seem that the spirit of the conversation was lost in translation to sobriety/print. To which I say: I AM SORRY!!! Obviously you have great tits, and are beautiful, and I would never dream of doing you wrong. Please forgive me. See you at the show.